


Past Tense

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes time to get to know Daryl, to get him to let his guard down even a little bit, and it's time that most of them don't want to put in.  Their loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Tense

**Author's Note:**

> Season One (except the camp was never attacked by walkers.) Inspired by "pie", a supplemental prompt from the fabulous Snick. Just a pointless little piece o' fluff, really. And it fought me, but I'm releasing it to the wild anyway. Fly free, little story.
> 
> * * *

"Beef wellington at Café Boulud," Andrea says. 

The fire between them crackles, spits out a flare when Glenn tosses a piece of gristle into the flames. He's never had beef wellington, but he's almost certain it would taste better than fire-roasted woodchuck. 

Still, beggars can't be choosers, and breakfast was a long time ago. He glances at his own sadly empty plate, stomach still rumbling treacherously, before reaching across Daryl's lap to snag another morsel. Daryl grunts and glares, then ruins any possibility of Glenn taking him seriously by subtly angling his plate toward him. Glenn smirks and leans into his shoulder before helping himself to a second slice of meat.

"Weren't you supposed to take me there?" Amy asks. Glenn looks up in time to see her cock her head, wrinkle her brow before pointing a finger at her sister. "Yes, on my sixteenth birthday. You promised to pick me up—"

"Okay," Andrea says.

"—and drive me to New York, where we'd have a whirlwind weekend—"

"You weren't even—"

"—of fancy dinners and shopping on Fifth Avenue—"

"All right, that's enough," Andrea interrupts. "I only had about seven depositions that week. And you were going through your vegetarian phase, anyway."

"Ugh, I ate so much salad. What a waste," Amy sighs. She tucks a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear, looks at him across the fire. "What about you, Glenn?"

"Easy," Glenn says. It's not like he doesn't spend half of every watch shift mentally listing every food he's ever eaten in the history of ever, mentally savoring the memory of a thousand different intoxicating flavours that he'll never again be able to enjoy. Then he gets depressed and promises that he's going to stop putting himself through that. Then he repeats the cycle the next time his watch duty gets super boring. It's a problem. 

"Well?"

"Chunky Monkey ice cream," he says.

"Chunky monkey?" Amy repeats with a laugh. "What the heck is that?"

"You've never heard of… oh my God, you haven't lived until…" Glenn shakes his head at the poor girl's ignorance, leans closer to the flames. "It's only the best thing ever invented. Banana ice cream with these huge chunks of chocolate and walnuts, okay? Just… picture heaven," he says. "Now picture heaven _melting in your mouth_."

"I already had heaven in my mouth," Amy says. "His name was Charlie Travers."

"Amy!" Andrea gasps.

Amy snorts. "Please. Did you think I was just _studying_ at U-Miss?"

"I had my hopes, yes," Andrea clips out. 

"Well… now you know. More to your little sister than meets the eye," Amy says smugly. She looks down at her plate, grimaces slightly before setting the remains of her portion aside. "Sure wish I'd had beef wellington when I had the chance, though. And Chunky whatever it was called. God, at this point anything would be better than groundhog."

Glenn can feel the tension where Daryl's arm brushes against his, the sudden tautness in his posture when Amy sighs and picks up a stick to poke at the flames. Her gaze flicks to Daryl, eyes downcast on his plate, before she looks a question to him over the fire. Glenn tries to signal her a big fat No with his eyes without being totally obvious about it, which is nearly impossible when Daryl's around, Daryl who watches and listens and picks up on everything. Who holds every hurt, real or imagined, inside. Who spent a good four hours alone in the woods today, risking his life to bring back enough game to feed everyone in the camp.

But apparently Amy isn't as good at observation as his boyfriend. Or maybe she just wants to include Daryl anyway, draw him into the conversation, make him feel like he's part of something. Part of their team. It's more than most of them do where Daryl is concerned. There's Shane who watches him with barely concealed disgust, Carol who tucks her arm around her daughter's shoulder and hustles her away whenever Daryl is near. Jacqui who always watches him with narrowed eyes. Andrea, who once referred to Daryl as a 'backwoods in-breeder' when Glenn was standing right there. 

Glenn ignores all of Daryl's warnings about night blindness, stares into the flames and finds himself getting angry at the snubs and insults all over again. He takes a shallow breath, opens his mouth to suggest to Daryl that they head back to their tent.

"What about you, Daryl?" Amy asks hesitantly. "What do you miss the most?"

Glenn tenses, looks up to see Daryl raise his head slowly. 

"Why you gotta torture yourselves?"

Glenn's eyes flick to Andrea as she draws herself upright. "Does this _sound_ like torture to you?" she asks.

"Oughta be grateful for what you got," Daryl spits out. "Oughta be happy you ain't out here starvin'!"

"I'm sorry," Amy says haltingly. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't apologize to him for—"

"Okay," Glenn says, "everybody just calm down."

But Daryl is already up and off the log, shooting off a final glare before stalking away. Andrea's shaking her head, sneering after him. Amy just looks at him, helpless and a little shell-shocked. 

Glenn bites back a sigh, lifts a shoulder. He's not about to explain the man – not even to Amy, who's been sweeter about trying to understand him than most. Most of them have already pigeonholed him into a neat little backwoods stereotype, and Daryl knows it and feeds into it. It takes time to get to know Daryl, to get him to let his guard down even a little bit, and it's time that most of them don't want to put in. Their loss.

"Guess I'll turn in, too," is all he says, pulling himself up from the log. 

"I don't know why you put up with it," Andrea says bitterly.

Glenn bristles, thinks of Daryl patiently teaching him how to set a snare and properly skin a rabbit in those first few weeks in the camp; Daryl ignoring the sneers and taunts he got for doing so from his own brother even as every single one of Merle's nasty barbs made his shoulders and his gaze droop lower. Remembers Daryl resolutely sitting by the fire every night with the group, even joining in on telling some stories, even though it was clear that he wasn't really wanted, even though he knew that they'd already just branded him as another racist redneck. Remembers Daryl risking his life for him on the first supply run they did together, after losing Merle in Atlanta; Daryl darting out into the midst of a dozen walkers outside the Hasty Mart to drag him to safety. And he remembers the first time he deliberately brushed against Daryl and how the man flinched and stiffened, and the second, and the fifth… until finally Daryl realized that the touch just meant friendship, just meant camaraderie, just meant shared moments that didn't have to end in pain or fear. Remembers the first time the touch meant something more.

"No," Glenn says quietly. "You wouldn't understand."

* * *

"Apple pie."

Glenn is lying on his stomach, on the brink of sleep, but at Daryl's voice he rolls his head lazily on the pillow. The sweat hasn't yet dried on his skin, his limbs weak and loose in that way that comes only from vigorous sex, no matter what the commercials for gym memberships or that ridiculous bowflex tell you. Glenn used to own a bowflex – it took up half the space in his shitty apartment and he used it mainly as a towel rack – so he knows of what he speaks. 

Daryl's voice is soft and raspy, barely audible over the renewed chirping of the cicadas outside the tent. His face is half in shadow, but Glenn can tell that his eyes are downcast; he lounges propped against his folded pillow, far enough away that Glenn would have to reach out over open space to touch him, but still close enough that he can. 

Glenn tucks his arm under his head. The only sound is their breathing, soft and even, and the lullaby of the crickets. 

"Every once in a while, my ma'd get it into her head that she wanted to make apple pie," Daryl finally continues. He snorts, shakes his head. "Usually when she was half in the bag. Spend most of the damn afternoon in the kitchen, makin' a mess, shooin' me and Merle out if we dared to step a toe in there. That night she'd toss it on the table after dinner like it was some kind of treat."

Glenn has tried to imagine a childhood spent in the Dixon household. The hints Daryl's given make him shudder; the scars that crisscross Daryl's chest and back make him alternately want to weep or to track down Daryl's chickenshit asshole of a father and beat the fuck out of him. Some of this probably shows on his face – there's a reason he always loses the campfire poker games – but Daryl's still staring at the shadows on the sleeping bag.

"Pie shell'd be burnt on the outside, raw in the middle. Half the apples never cooked, thing so full of cinnamon your tongue'd be coated in it. Most disgusting thing I ever ate." 

"The thing you miss the most," Glenn says.

Daryl looks at him then, meets his eyes quickly before glancing away. His fingers pick at a loose string on the sleeping bag. "Stupid."

"It's not the pie," Glenn says. "It's that she tried to do something nice for you."

"Still stupid."

Glenn shakes his head, crawls over the mound of blankets to tuck himself in at Daryl's side. The "no cuddling" thing has kind of been an unspoken rule between them, but he ignores it now; also ignores the ever so slight stiffening of Daryl's body before the man lets himself relax. "I remember reading that there's some way to make pastry without eggs," he says. "Carol probably knows. We ever find a pie crust mix and an apple orchard, I will bake you the most revolting pie you've ever had. Seriously, this thing will make you vomit. You'll puke for days. It'll be awesome."

He rolls his eyes upward in time to see Daryl huff out a silent laugh. "Tryin' to kill me now?"

"Yup," Glenn says, settling back down on his chest. He waves a hand airily to take in the dirty clothes spilling from Daryl's backpack, the crossbow propped within easy reach. "Trying to take you out so I can inherit your vast wealth."

Daryl's snort reverberates against his ear. "What makes you think I'd leave it all to you, chinaman?"

Glenn smiles. "Because you love me, jerk."

The heartbeat under his ear stutters once before speeding up. And when Daryl just pulls him a little closer, Glenn takes that as all the confirmation he needs.


End file.
